If Wishes Were Horses, Beggars Would Ride
by Ms. Unlucky
Summary: AU-ish "He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment his oldest son's innocence had died, just that it had, and that it was complete and utterly his fault." Hurt!Abused!Dean  Angsty!John - Further warnings in AN  Not Slash unfortunately.


**Authors Stuff ~** Um, yeah, so for those of you who read "Impeccable", then you know what to expect from this fic. Random, AU-ish, Angsty john Winchester. XD Sorry i'm not writing my usual stuff guys, but this has just been... _coming_ to me, ya know? Them Plot-bunnies have just been molesting my brain left and right! D:

**Warnings ~** Mentions of underage molestation, drug and alcohol abuse, and mentions of child neglect. I kinda think this _might_ be 'M', but I'm still putting it as 'T'. :D

**Disclaimer ~** If I owned Supernatural, this would _not _be what i'd do with it... I would make Dean the ultimate Bottom and make everone want to get in his pants... (Especially Misha) Just sayin'. X3

Reading may scare you for life if you are anti-angst and love a happy ending.

This story is unBeta'd, therefore all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

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><p>He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment his oldest son's innocence had died, just that it had, and that it was complete and utterly his fault. Perhaps he hadn't been the one giving the suggestive looks, the leers, been the lingering hands, or rapist, but it was most definitely his fault.<p>

Once Mary had died, he had kept his drinking and drug abuse in check for the sole reason that his two boys still needed him, and he wasn't entirely sure when that spun out of control either, but it had.

He blamed the fire for a while, and God. They had been the ones who took his wife away after all, which had led to his own personal demise. But now he realized that, even if true, which he was sure it was, it was no excuse for the way he had neglected his children, his boys.

Certainly, he made sure they were fed, clothed, and the lack of one on one interaction wasn't exactly the big problem either, though it did have a big thing to do with his lack of attention. If he had paid just a _little_ more attention to the people his children were around on an almost daily basis, if he had been sober for perhaps just a few hours longer during the day, not just getting out of his bed for the sole purpose of good old Jack, then perhaps he would have noticed, even if not looking for it, the disgusting, lewd expressions so many people shown towards his eldest son, Dean.

And by 'so many people' he meant a specific three: the GYM couch, the math teacher, and the principle. All are who, by the way, six feet under now. He had made sure of that, at least.

At fifteen, it was kind of a routine for Dean to stay behind after school while little Sammy came home; he almost always had detention. This never brought up too many questions with the teachers, they never did much, and this was thanks to the fact they never stayed in one town for too long, so Dean was never in a school long enough to cause too much of a ruckus or worry among the faculty.

Never the less, something seemed off, a deep burn of _wrong _coiled deep inside of John's stomach as his youngest told him that Dean would once again be about an hour and a half late because his English teacher, Mr. Hendricks, said so.

It was only their second week in this particular school, and Dean had been pretty good about detentions so far. Still, John was puzzled as to why he had decided to go to the school and check up on his eldest anyways, it's not like he had done anything even _resembling_ that for the past seven years. Perhaps God was trying to make up for killing his wife? Or maybe at the time, Dean had been wishing for his daddy so hard he had managed to manifest sense and soberness into John's very being.

Whatever the case maybe, John was, and still is, _extremely_ thankful he had gone.

When he arrived at the school, the big tip off something was wrong had definitely been that the rude, wrinkled old hag at the front desk hadn't known a thing about Mr. Hendricks holding detention that particular day, so John _sweet talked_ his way further into the school, getting an annoying school bus shaped sticker reading '_Visitor: John Winchester'_ and made his way towards the English teachers' classroom.

A sinking feeling turned into slight fear when he found the room empty, and was about to go back to the front desk, an aggravatingly long walk the opposite direction, when he heard a muffled thump. For a bit, he just stood in the lonely school hallway, most teachers had already gone home, or so he deduced from the mostly empty parking lot.

He waited, but he didn't hear it again. Still, whether it was his sons unheard pleas for help, or his desperate prayers being answered by God himself, John had decided to venture farther down the hallway, until he came face to face with large, red, double doors. He assumed they led to the school's GYM.

He hadn't heard anything else, but still, he tried to open the door anyways. Looking back, it shouldn't have been so surprising to find the doors locked, school was out after all, but something pushed the beginnings fear into downright panic.

Picking the flimsy locks had been a piece of cake, it would have been child's play even for his youngest boy, Sam. But getting those doors open had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done in his life. The suspense, though murderous, had been the only thing keeping him protected from what might have been behind those annoyingly red double doors.

He doesn't regret opening them.

In retrospect, it wasn't a big a shock as it should have been, seeing his son face down on the hard, wood floor, pants at his ankles, shirt discarded carelessly across the room, and three grown men standing over his boy. Maybe in the back of his mind he knew what was going on, saw the leers and malicious intent through his drug hazed eyes, and it wasn't God or his sons silent screams for help that dragged him to the school, to the GYM, but had been that small part of John Winchester that hadn't died in the fire that took his wife, his Mary.

That small part of him had been looking out for his boys, and had known from the start what was going to happen, what had _been_ happening, but had been powerless against the booze until now to stop it.

From there things fade in and out of memory.

He remembers their shit eating grins quickly turning into shocked gasps, he remembers the first two going down easy, their necks breaking like twigs under his adrenaline and rage fueled strength. He remembers the GYM teacher fighting the hardest, breaking his arm and shoving him against the cold floor and beating his face in over and over and over again.

And then he remembers the muffled sobs.

Dean's mouth had been duck taped, hands bound as well. He had tried to make himself as small as he could, shivering as cool air attacked his abused and naked body. John felt completely numb then, that small part of him dying as he realized his failure to protect his boys.

His failure to Mary.

So maybe he can't pinpoint the exact moment, the exact day his eldest son had lost his innocence, but he can be sure that those three men are the ones who took it, and that it had been his fault entirely.

He never found out if that had been the first time they had tried something like that with him, Dean won't tell him, Hell, he won't speak, hasn't since the incident. But what he does know is that he at least got his closure, got his revenge. John hadn't been the only one to dig three deep holes under some nondescript bridge that night, and he hadn't been the only one taking pleasure in doing so either.

His son's a mess, they both are, but John's feeding them promise after promise, word after word that it will be okay, that their daddy's better now, and all he can do is hope and _wish_ that those words are true, that there won't be a _next time_ to save them from.

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><p>Reviews would be appreciated but are unnecessary.<p> 


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